Miser of Mayfair (15 page)

Lord Harrington watched him go and turned to speak to some of his other friends. He talked of this and that while all the time he was cursing himself for his rude behaviour. Fiona Sinclair affected him very strongly. When she had criticized Brummell, his first reaction had been irritation that she should so calmly dismiss London’s leading star, she who was a rank outsider. And Lord Harrington was sure she
was
an outsider despite her beauty and the modishness of her manners. There was something
foreign
about Fiona Sinclair, something that was oddly threatening to his caste, his way of life, his peace of mind.

The father must have married late in life, he mused. But what had all that been about an orphanage? Perhaps Miss Sinclair had merely been involved in some charity.

The glittering crowd shifted and moved and shifted again, and all at once Fiona was not there. A moment before, she had been in the centre of the room, surrounded by a group of admiring men, and the next, she was gone. She had probably gone downstairs to the ante room, which had been set aside for the ladies, to pin her hair or straighten her gown.

It struck him that if he went down to the hall, he might catch her as she came out and have a few words in private to make up for his lapse of manners. He would not admit to himself that one of the main reasons he had walked away from her was because he could not bear to share her company even with Toby.

People were still arriving. As he edged his way down, he saw the top of Fiona’s black curls as she made her way out of the front door to the street.

What on earth was the girl about, to leave without her father or a servant? It was well known that the miser of Mayfair did not keep a carriage.

Moving quickly past the people who were still pushing their way upstairs, he gained the doorway and went out onto the steps, and stood looking to the left and right, until he saw her slim figure turn the corner of Green Street and disappear into Park Lane.

Joseph had screamed in protest against the whole idea. But now, as he checked the time on the watch Mr Rainbird had lent him, he felt a thrill of excitement. The costume had a lot to do with it.

He was dressed in a long black cloak, its hood shadowing his masked face. Anyone seeing him would take him for a young blood on his way to a ridotto.

The plan was this. Fiona would slip away from the rout at nine o’ clock precisely and go into Park Lane. Joseph was to swoop down on her and appear to club her. When she pretended to scream and swoon, Rainbird was to come running up and ‘rescue’ Miss Fiona. He would then carry her ‘unconscious’ body in his arms back to the Bascombes’ and make sure Lord Harrington heard of the ‘brutal’ attack on Fiona. Joseph was to make his escape into Hyde Park where Dave and Angus MacGregor would be standing by to divert any pursuit.

Lord Harrington was expected to have all sorts of feelings of knight errantry roused in his chilly breast. Fiona had thought the plan a very poor one, but at last had said it would do as a sort of rehearsal until Rainbird could think of something better.

The first thing to go wrong, although Joseph did not know it, was that Rainbird had forgotten that the watch he had lent Joseph was the only timepiece at Number 67 that told the correct time. It was, therefore, a full ten minutes late when he set out followed by MacGregor and Dave.

Meanwhile, Fiona had noticed to her satisfaction that Park Lane was as quiet as they had expected it to be at that hour, most of the rich and their servants being indoors. She smiled to herself as Joseph moved out from under the shadow of a large plane tree.

‘Hold hard, pretty maiden,’ he cried. ‘I wouldst have thy jewels.’

‘Oh,
Joseph
,’ hissed Fiona, exasperated. ‘Do get on with it. This is not the Haymarket.’

Joseph’s eyes behind the slits of his mask looked hurt. ‘Then if you will not give me your jewels, I will take your life,’ he shouted. He drew MacGregor’s prize carving knife from under the folds of his cloak and held it up where the flickering light of the parish lamp shone on its wicked edge.

‘You’re supposed to
stun
me,’ said Fiona. ‘Not knife me. Was ever a woman so plagued—’

‘Hey!’

She broke off as a shout resounded down the street. Joseph saw the figure of a man hurtling towards him and dropped the knife with a squeak of terror. He tried to make his escape but the long cloak wound itself about his legs and he stretched his length on the road.

Lord Harrington was about to pounce on him. The earl had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he had seen a tall masked figure brandishing a knife in front of Fiona.

But before he could reach Fiona’s fallen assailant, she had thrown herself on him and wound her arms about his neck. She had a powerful grip and he struggled to disengage his arms.

‘Let me be, Miss Sinclair,’ he gasped. ‘I must catch that man.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona saw Joseph struggle to his feet and glimpsed the figures of Rainbird, MacGregor, and Dave hurrying along on the other side at the edge of the park.

‘My hero!’ said Fiona, ruthlessly tightening her grip.

The earl looked down at her with a flash of suspicion in his eyes. Fiona pulled his head down and kissed him warmly.

And that was when the Earl of Harrington forgot about assailants and daggers and routs and anything else in the whole wide world but the reeling sensations caused by the warm, clinging softness of her mouth. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her legs against his legs. She smelled of soap and rose water.

He returned her kiss with blind, single-minded intensity, feeling himself lost and drowning and not ever wanting to rise to the surface of reality again.

When she finally, gently, freed her mouth and he twisted around, it was to find that her assailant had got clean away. It was as if he had dreamt the whole thing. Park Lane was deserted. A warm breeze stirred the leaves of the plane tree. There was a smell of dust mixed with the smell of whale oil from the parish lamp. He stared down at Fiona. She was still clasped in his arms, but her eyes were downcast and he felt her body tremble.

‘You must forgive my wanton behaviour, my lord,’ said Fiona in a husky voice. ‘My nerves were quite over-set.’

He put her gently away from him. ‘We will pretend it never happened,’ he said. ‘But tell me about the attack. It was like a stage play. For one brief moment I thought I was watching some sort of charade.’

‘No,’ said Fiona, achieving a realistic shiver. ‘It was real enough. He said he would kill me.’

‘We had best return quickly to the Bascombes’ and have the servants sent out to see if they can find the fellow, although I do not think there is much hope now.’

‘I do not want to go back,’ said Fiona in a low voice. ‘I want to go home.’

‘But your father . . . ?’

‘Leave my father be,’ said Fiona in a tired voice. ‘If you do not wish to escort me home . . .’

‘But of course! I consider myself honoured. My carriage will be—’

‘I would rather walk.’

‘Very well,’ he said, looking at her curiously. ‘I gather you do not want to go back to the Bascombes’ even to let me get my hat and gloves?’

‘No.’

‘But you have no shawl, no wrap.’

‘The night is very warm.’

He drew her arm through his own and walked with her down Park Lane, studying her averted face, his mind racing. It was a dreadful thought, but it was almost as if she had thrown herself at him to stop him from catching her assailant. Perhaps he had been some rejected Scottish lover.

‘Who gave you that fan?’ he asked. It was not what he had meant to say to her but it was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

‘I bought it, my lord.’

‘Ah, then I have no reason to feel jealous. I was sure an admirer sent it to you.’

‘It was very expensive,’ said Fiona. ‘I do not think I would accept such an expensive gift from anyone.’

‘You must have received many tokens of love.’

Fiona smiled but did not reply.

‘But you must be used to that,’ he went on. ‘Everyone is stunned by your beauty.’

‘Strange to be considered beautiful,’ said Fiona, half to herself, ‘after having thought I was ugly. Every morning I look in my glass expecting to see another face, another woman, but it is always just me. The same.’

‘Where did you come by this mad idea that you are ugly? The orphanage?’

He felt her stiffen and then she said lightly, ‘I told you about the orphanage, did I not?’

‘Only about some intellectual orphanage where they discussed the affairs of state. Did you do charitable work there?’

‘Yes.’ Fiona smiled. ‘But we must not talk of deep matters. We must talk of silly things. I am told that is what you prefer.’

‘You were misinformed.’

‘What do you look for in a lady?’

Her question reminded him sharply of the feel and taste of her lips. What man could desire more than that?

How quiet the streets were! Only one carriage drawn by a pair of matched bays clopped along Park Lane, and from one of the houses came the faint tinkling strains of a waltz. The air was sweet and warm.

He could not kiss her again, not unless he proposed marriage to her, and he could not do that. His name belonged not only to himself but to a long line of Harringtons, and he could not lightly stain it all through raging passion for this odd girl who, he was quite sure, had a closet simply rattling with skeletons.

‘You have not answered my question, my lord.’ Her voice with its enchanting Scottish lilt was low and teasing with a breaking husky note in it. He was aware of the softness of her arm against the broadcloth of his sleeve and of the way her bosom rose and fell.

They came under the light of another lamp at the corner of Piccadilly and Park Lane, and he stopped and turned her to face him, standing still and looking down at her.

Her lips looked slightly swollen, and her eyes were very large and dark. He would kiss her one more time to prove to himself that his senses had been cheating him. Just one more time.

She came trustingly into his arms as if she belonged there. His dark, hawklike face loomed over her, blotting out the light. And then his mouth descended on hers. This time it was worse . . . or better.

Now he knew what the poets meant. Now he knew what it was like to lose his very soul. He kissed her ferociously, groaning against her mouth, kissing her dizzy, kissing her breathless, kissing her until he felt he would die from frustration.

‘Fiona,’ he said raggedly. ‘Oh, Fiona, this will not do. I must not ruin your reputation, and it will surely be ruined if someone should see us. Let me take you home.’

She walked on in silence. He could feel her retreating from him, retreating behind that calm front she presented to the world.

‘I-I should not have done that,’ he stammered, and felt he was making matters worse. Although he had never before felt such scorching passion, he knew enough about it to understand it had a habit of burning out and leaving a man stranded on the bleak shores of marriage, facing a woman across the breakfast table who was nothing more than a boring stranger.

‘You should not have
said
that,’ said Fiona severely. ‘You have neither grace nor manners.’

‘I apologize,’ he said stiffly. ‘I was overset by the circumstances.’

‘Worse and worse,’ mocked Fiona. ‘Go, my lord, to the courtesans like Harriette Wilson. Go and buy love without responsibility. Perhaps it is all you are fit for.’

‘Madam, I admit I behaved disgracefully,’ he raged. ‘There is no need to taunt me.’

‘Perhaps you should be taunted more often, my lord. At least it turns you into the appearance of a man of blood and sinew rather than . . . a tailor’s dummy.’

‘God, that I had never met you, you witch.’

‘You need not see me again,’ pointed out Fiona with that same maddening calm. ‘Go away and find some lady with a long pedigree and a long nose and a mind as pedestrian as your own.’

‘Thank you,’ he shouted. ‘I will!’

‘You may take yourself off,’ said Fiona. ‘Oh, what fortune! Mr Rainbird.’

The much-flustered butler had sent Joseph home with Dave and the enraged MacGregor, who was bemoaning the loss of his best knife. He had discreetly followed the couple, keeping always to the shadows on the park side of the road. They had turned into Piccadilly when he had heard their raised voices and had decided the time had come to intervene.

‘I shall leave you, Miss Sinclair,’ said Lord Harrington, ‘and return to the Bascombes’.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Fiona. ‘What is more important in life than to recover one’s hat and stick? Tell my father I was overcome by the heat, if you please, my lord. Do not tell him I was attacked again. His heart is bad.’

‘As bad as his daughter’s?’ snapped the earl, receiving a fulminating glare from Rainbird. He turned on his heel and walked away.

‘Oh, miss,’ said Rainbird. ‘I am so sorry. I was late arriving and Joseph said Lord Harrington nearly caught him, and he had the vapours in the Park and would not calm down until MacGregor threatened to throw him into the Serpentine.’

‘You all did very well, Mr Rainbird,’ said Fiona sadly. ‘I mismanaged the whole thing. I have behaved like a wanton and given Lord Harrington a disgust of me.’

‘Miss Sinclair,’ said Rainbird, not looking at her, ‘I saw you and his lordship a little while back, and he certainly did not look like a disgusted man.’

‘Ah, Mr Rainbird,’ sighed Fiona. ‘No, don’t walk behind me. I must talk. I must talk to someone, or I will go mad. So I will talk to you, my Rainbird, and you will forget whatever I say to you and never refer to it again.’

‘Yes, miss,’ said Rainbird, looking at her curiously.

‘I am not Mr Sinclair’s daughter. I was his brother’s ward. Jamie Sinclair, the brother, was a sort of religious lecher. He took me from the orphanage and schooled me to be a lady. Although he was always correct, I sensed he could barely keep his hands off me, even when I was thirteen. I knew he wanted me for his wife. I was determined to stay with him for just as long as I could bear it. Fear of poverty made me bear it. Fear of being nameless again. Fear of cold and hunger.
You
know, Mr Rainbird.’